


The Kiss

by celluloidbroomcloset



Category: The Avengers (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 19:59:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3949747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celluloidbroomcloset/pseuds/celluloidbroomcloset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steed and Mrs. Peel face a turning-point in their relationship during their first trip to Paris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kiss

Emma Peel loved Paris. She’d been there many times, and each trip she experienced a different side to the city. Paris was like that – many cities in one, but all of them with the same starry, slightly romantic quality that no amount of cynicism or world experience could shake. Going to Paris with someone new was something like returning to a place of one’s childhood – all the same sights and sounds, yet intrinsically different.

Of course, Steed knew a very different Paris from any that she had been to. He knew a Paris of back alleys and underground nightclubs, and late night jazz. A Paris of women not quite as good as they should be, and men much worse. Emma knew that going to Paris with him would be far different, for many reasons, than any other time she’d been to Paris before.

When he asked where she wanted to go to dinner that first night, she said someplace different – meaning none of the expensive haute cuisine restaurants that lined the Grand Boulevards, where white-gloved waiters would serve them pink champagne on ice and snails soaked in garlic butter. She wanted an experience unique to what she had done before, in far too many cities peppered over the globe. John Steed, she thought, was just the man to understand what she desired. 

Which was how they came to the Moroccan bistro at the heart of the Latin Quarter. Emma was certain she wouldn’t be able to find it again if she had a map, a compass, and a guide dog, yet Steed trod those streets as though he’d been born there. The Quarter was the most lively section of Paris – a maze of street vendors, small bistros serving French, Italian, and Eastern fares, little shops hawking postcards for tourists and patterned scarves for the slightly more discerning. They were probably the best dressed couple within five streets. Steed looked very debonair in his black tie and dinner jacket, and Emma felt she did herself proud in a lace patterned white dress she had chosen because it was too thin to wear out in London in early April. In Paris it was perfect, the temperature warm without being balmy, the skies clear and stars just visible beyond the city lights.

“I feel a tad overdressed,” said Emma as Steed pulled her chair out.

The small room was done out in reds and oranges. The style recalled a seraglio – probably more for the benefit of Western tourists than for tradition’s sake – and the warm fumes of curries and hookah smoke thickened the air.

“You look lovely,” said Steed as he took the seat opposite her.

It was the second compliment he’d paid her that evening. Emma smiled and fingered the diamond necklace he had given her earlier in their capacious hotel room. When she’d gazed at her reflection in the mirror and told him that it was gorgeous, he’d placed a kiss on her neck.

“You’re gorgeous,” he said, in that deep tone she knew belonged to her alone.

Steed rarely complimented her with such directness, but then again they were on holiday. Perhaps he was letting some of his well-placed professional guards down on a trip that was to be for pure pleasure.

“How did you come to know about this place?” she asked after they had ordered from the waiter in a high Turkish collar.

“I’ve spent a good bit of time here, off and on, since the war. The Latin Quarter is full of surprises.”

“So are you.”

Steed raised his wine glass and grinned. “Thank you, Mrs. Peel.” 

“My pleasure, Mr. Steed.”

The meal passed companionably. They mulled over the artwork they’d seen at the Musee Rodin earlier that day – still Emma’s favorite museum in Paris, with the fine sculptures laid out amid flowers and hedgerows instead of closed up in vast halls and surrounded by guards. It was, as she explained to Steed, a sense of living art, that the sculptures themselves would come alive and step from their pedestals to tell their stories.

“I think that must be what every artist strives for,” she said as their plates were being cleared of the first course. “That sense that one’s art can come alive for others and not merely for oneself.”

Steed nodded, though she wondered how well he understood.

“Was there any piece that particularly impressed you?” she asked.

“The Kiss.”

Emma blinked. He’d seemed more interested in the flower beds outside and the decorating inside than in the art on display.

“Why that?”

He shifted in his chair. “Because it seemed as though…as though nothing could trouble them. There was no one in the world but each other and that moment. Nothing else mattered.” 

Steed smiled, that boyish, sweet grin that was so genuine and so thoroughly disarming. Emma felt her heart contract. Damn the man for knowing just what to say, and yet not realizing that he knew it.

The meal was excellent, as it would have to be. Steed had a strong appreciation for good food, just as he did for good wine, expensive cars, bespoke suits, and attractive women. He would never have eaten anywhere twice that was less than perfect.

After the meal, the waiter brought steaming cups of thick, sweet coffee and Steed ordered a hookah. They sat and drank their coffee and smoked the warm rose-flavored tobacco. Though they talked of other things, Emma’s mind continued to drift back to what he said about The Kiss. Steed was a strange man – flippant, even insouciant on the surface, yet with a powerful sense of justice and fair play. The combination made him formidable, for he could appear breezy and charming to his enemies and yet remain as resolved to stop them as a brick wall. Stubborn like a wall too, at times, especially when he thought he was right. Though they usually worked together well enough, they’d butted heads once or twice, often over trivial matters that grew into drag out fights. Emma knew she could be stubborn too, as passionate in her way as he was in his. The interaction made them both dangerous as partners, intense as lovers, and close-knit as friends.

There had been moments, though, and they were growing more frequent, when Emma would catch Steed looking at her – a certain glint in his eyes, a turn to his mouth, as though she was a confusing and somewhat disconcerting subject that he had difficulty comprehending. In the beginning, he had looked at her with lust, easy and simple. It grew quickly into a mutual attraction so powerful that the only thing more pleasurable than going to bed together was the anticipation of going to bed together. But lust and attraction, in Emma’s limited experience, had a way of playing themselves out quickly. Her relationship with Steed had not. It had, in fact, only deepened as a friendship, a warm regard and sympathy that went far beyond the bedroom. She liked being with him, talking to him, working with him. She had come to prefer being with him than being alone – a daring change for her. And there, perhaps, was the source of the confusion, for her as well as for him. Perhaps they were beginning to like each other a little too much.

They left the restaurant and walked down the short, maze-like streets of the Quarter, arm in arm. It had grown colder and Emma began to wish she had been so blasé in wearing the thin dress. As they emerged from the safety of the Quarter’s close buildings, she began to shiver in earnest, her skin rising in goosebumps. She felt Steed drape his coat about her shoulders without a word, and again her heart contracted in a manner that grew annoying. 

“Would you like to get a taxi?” he asked as they came to the corner. 

“No, I’d rather walk, if that’s all right.”

They went along in a new and curious silence. Emma began to feel almost frightened to say something, afraid that whatever she did say would be serious and irrevocable. She didn’t know why Steed’s few words about The Kiss bothered her so. Her free hand gravitated towards her necklace, pressing the delicate diamonds against her skin.

They crossed at the Pont St. Michel. Below them Seine sparkled, a slight breeze rippling its waters as a tourist boat, bright as the city itself, passed beneath. The Cathedral of Notre Dame stood out among the trees of its park, while behind and before them the night life carried on. But where they were it was quiet. Emma paused, leaning on the stone railing as she gazed down into the waters.

“What are we, Steed?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

Steed’s shoulder pressed to hers when he planted himself against the railing beside her. She could feel the warmth of him.

“To each other,” she said.

“We’re partners, in every sense of the word.” 

“You say it so flippantly.”

“I don’t mean to. Why? What else should we be?”

She closed her eyes and breathed for a moment. When she opened them again, he was leaning over the balustrade, as though trying to spot a fish in the water.

“I don’t like games-playing, Steed.” 

“I’m not games-playing; I merely don’t know what you mean.”

“I told you when it all started that I wouldn’t be tied down.”

“And have I ever tried to? Except when it was called for.” He smiled at her.

Emma felt her colour rise. “I also don’t appreciate jokes like that.”

“I’m not joking! Here, what’s wrong? You were all right a minute ago.”

“I…” Emma cut off her own sentence. What was wrong with her? A lovely day, a lovely evening, a lovely meal, a lovely necklace, a lovely city, and a lovely man, and yet…

She wrapped her arms over her chest and paced away from the railing, then back again.

“Do you love me?”

The words were out of her mouth before she could think to stop them. She regretted it instantly. She didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to know, didn’t want to ruin this wonderful place, this wonderful night, with questions like that, foolish questions, questions that had no right answer, no easy solution, no…

“Of course I love you.” 

His voice was as earnest as his face – even, perhaps, a little surprised. Leaning on the balustrade facing her, he looked as though he’d answered the question before. But she was certain he had not. 

“You…what?”

“Of course I love you. I thought I made that very clear.”

Emma stared. She was not usually at a loss for words, but she had not expected…quite that response. 

“I…”

He straightened up, took the collar of her coat – his coat – in his hands and pulled her towards him.

“I love you, Emma.” 

She wasn’t certain if she kissed him or he kissed her – she wasn’t certain of anything any more – but she was undoubtedly in his arms. His mouth claimed hers with tenderness and just a hint of possession. It took her a second or two to realize what had happened – the wonderful, joyous thing that had just happened. Her body felt warm all over, as though she was melting in his embrace and the welcoming heat of his mouth. Blood rushed to her head and laughter coursed through her body, so overwhelming that she had to swallow to keep from breaking the kiss. 

When they drew away, she looked up into Steed’s face – his dear, handsome face, so tender, so loving, with such lovely grey eyes that shone in the Parisian lights. That little creased formed in the center of his brow. 

“Do you love me?” he asked. 

Emma was unable to control herself any longer. She buried her face in his shoulder and shook with laughter.

“You know,” Steed said, “usually when I tell a woman I love her on a bridge in Paris, she does not break down into hysterics.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Emma, looking at him again and trying to stifle her joy enough to be able to speak. “Oh, Steed. Oh, I do love you.”

She was surprised by how easy it was to say. But now that she said it, she was amazed that it was true. She did love him, as completely as ever a woman loved a man.

They kissed again, and probably would have remained on that bridge the rest of their natural lives if they could have, but the night was cold, the wind was picking up, and there was a king-sized bed in a hotel suite calling to them.

It was a test of fortitude to keep from making love right there in the back of the cab, or in the hotel foyer, or in the lift going up to their suite. But somehow they made it into the room without making too great fools of themselves, although Emma was positive they had behaved just a touch ridiculously.

She went into the bedroom first and stopped at the sight of the big soft bed, with satin sheets that looked smooth and inviting. Her stomach fluttered a little, an odd reaction for her. It wasn’t as though they hadn’t been together before, many times. But this somehow felt different. She hadn’t felt as nervous on her wedding night.

Steed came into the room, bearing a champagne bucket and two glasses. 

She laughed. “I didn’t know you were a juggler.”

“You should see me with flaming torches. Lest this turn into a Charlie Chaplin routine, would you mind giving me a hand?”

She took the glasses from him and he set the bucket down on the bedside table. He focused on opening the champagne while she went and turned down the bed. It felt strange, almost domestic, as she uncovered the crisp linens and he fumbled with the cork. Emma looked down at the sheets as though she might be able to read all the answers to her life in their smooth lines.

“I’m not very good at this, Steed,” she said quietly.

“That’s why they have a maid service.”

“No. I mean…this.” She waved her hand vaguely. “I wasn’t married for very long. I don’t know that I really know how to be a … couple.”

“Ah. Well, neither do I. We’ll just feel it out together. Should be jolly good fun. However, we may have to feel it out without champagne, for I believe that the French Army put this cork…ah!”

There was a loud pop and the fizzy liquid ran over his hand before he could get a glass under it. 

“I hope it’s not a bad sign.” Emma smiled and took the glass from Steed’s hand. 

“I’ve never been known to pop a cork too early, my dear. Though if you keep looking at me like that, tonight may be a first.”

“Looking at you like what?”

“That. Honestly, a man only has so much self-control.”

They sipped the champagne. When their eyes met over the rims of their glasses, Emma knew that most of the bottle would go flat. She set her glass down on the bedside table and turned her back to him 

“Undo me.” Emma lifted her hair. 

She could feel him step up behind her. She’d never been so aware of a man’s scent as she was of Steed’s – she could not have explained why she adored it, but she loved smelling him on her clothes and her body, the aroma clinging to her even as she went about her daily life. At times it came back to her with a power that was intoxicating.

He undid the clasp at the top of her dress, then slid the zipper down with a deliberate slowness. Shivers traversed her skin when his lips touched the nape of her neck.

“You’re so beautiful, Emma.”

His thumb ran down her spine, then left it to caress her hip and down across her buttock. He squeezed gently, pulling her back against him.

“Mmmm.”

She had no further eloquence as he dotted kisses beneath her ear.

“We have all night,” he whispered. “Let me show you how much I love you.”

For a moment she closed her eyes and reveled in the feel of his mouth against her skin. He wrapped one arm around her and allowed his hand to search her body in light strokes. 

Emma turned in his embrace. “Get undressed. I’ll be right back.”

He let her go reluctantly, and she could feel his eyes following her into the bathroom. In the bathroom she removed her dress and hung it on the back of the door, standing in her slip. Her lipstick had already been smudged once that night and would be again, but she retouched it just the same. No sense in failing to observe all the proprieties.

The diamonds still shone against her freckled skin, and for a moment she considered removing them. Then the image of Steed making love to her while she wore nothing but the necklace sprung to her mind and she decided against it.

When she returned to the bedroom, Steed was already under the covers, his clothes in a neatly folded pile on the armchair and his jacket, no doubt, already hung in the closet. 

“I hope you’re not going to become terribly nonchalant now, Steed.”

“Come over here and we can discuss it.”

Emma smiled and turned off the light, so that the room was illumined by Paris outside, and dark within. 

She slid into bed beside him, resolutely ignoring the butterflies in her stomach. The sheets were cool but he was warm, and she gravitated towards him like a moth to a flame – though perhaps with slightly less danger of being burnt. 

“Emma, you’re shaking.” 

“I am not.”

“You are. I can feel it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Frightened of me?”

“I am not going to dignify that with an answer.” 

“Darling girl…”

“Shut up.”

But she was shaking and she knew it, so she kissed him to stop herself. Kissed him hard, trying to find that wonderful, heady place she knew so well. And when he kissed her back and put his arms about her, she could feel the tremble in his hands as well, the tentative way he caressed her, as though they were newlyweds who had never seen each other naked before. It was ridiculous and somehow lovely at the same time. 

Soon, though, she recalled that nothing had really changed between them. She knew him, and he knew her. He laid her back against the pillows, kissed the corner of her mouth, his hands roving over the soft satin of her slip and rubbing in small circles. Feeling her out. He tossed the covers off so that they settled on the end of the bed.

“We’re going to be cold,” she said. 

“We won’t be cold at all. Besides, I want to see you.”

He drew one strap of the dress down, placing soft kisses against her shoulder. She didn’t want to move, but her body was beginning to ache for him. The familiar throbbing between her legs increased with each all too gentle kiss. He would get there in his own good time, she knew – meanwhile she explored him, the fine definition of his chest and shoulders, the softness of his torso, the moving muscles on his back. She ran her fingers through the hair on his chest, found the round nipples and stroked them until they hardened. A gentle moan escaped his throat.

Steed lowered one side of her slip to expose her breast to his touch.

“So beautiful,” he said, rubbing the very point of the nipple with his finger.

He lowered his mouth and engulfed her. Little tremors of pleasure sped through her. She’d always felt her breasts were too small, too slight, but Steed seemed to adore them, touching them like they were the finest, most delicate things he’d encountered. He took the nipple gently between his teeth and sucked until she cried out. 

“I love the sounds you make,” he said, already drawing down the other side of her slip. 

He repeated his action, taking as much of her into his mouth as he could, licking and sucking her until she had to shout just to relieve the tension.

She turned him over onto his back and kissed him, bare breasts now pressed into his chest. Her hand traveled lower, finding the band of his briefs. He was already hard and she could envision his length and width, still curbed beneath that malleable fabric. She rubbed him with an open palm and felt rather than heard the gasp. He trapped her hand against his clothed genitals, guiding it to stroke him, his breath coming in short strained hisses.

“Don’t you dare come without me,” she said into his ear.

“I never precede a lady.”

But he flipped her over onto her back fast enough, dragging her slip the rest of the way down and off. She was now naked underneath him, their bodies divided only by the cotton fabric of his briefs. He spread her with his fingers and searched her folds, slipping first one and then another finger inside of her until she was slick, moisture spilling down her thighs and over his fingers. Oblivious now to trying to touch him or tease him further, she writhed under his touch. Then she felt the pressure of his erection, still clothed, rubbing against her as his mouth came down on hers. One hand covered her breast and the other stroked her clitoris in small circles, timing with his simulated thrusts against her opening. 

It was too much. It was not enough. She was lost in the sensations, wanted nothing but satisfaction, the feel of him deep within her. She slid her hands up and beneath his briefs, and he lifted just enough to let her free him.

She expected a hard single thrust, a rapid building to a shattering orgasm. What she did not expect, after all his teasing, was for him to take her so slowly that she could feel every inch of his flesh, or, once as deep inside her as he could ever be, for him to not move at all, just stay there buried in her while she throbbed with unsatisfied desire.

He put his hands under her hips and lifted her against him. Their bodies pressed perfectly together.

She opened her eyes and looked into his and saw the truth of what he had spoken earlier. 

“I love you, John,” she mouthed, unable to speak. She pressed her lips to his and closed her eyes, suddenly wanting to remain like this forever. This moment, when nothing else mattered.

When they moved, they moved in tandem – her rising with his falling, guided by his hands on her hips as in a dance. He leaned forward so that with each downward stroke he touched her clitoris, ensuring, as he always did, the most exquisite pleasure he could give. And it was exquisite, and not just to make love with him. It was exquisite because it was love.

She clung to his back, for the moment feeling as though he was all that kept her from breaking into pieces. When she came, she came with a cry, holding him to her so that he could hear what it was she felt for him. She felt rather than heard the choked sob that signaled the beginning of his orgasm, and then the spasming of his body as he came into her, his head falling forward and breath hot on her skin as he pushed into her as far as he could, trembled, and then went slack, as though it had taken everything he had.

Emma did not know how long they lay there in the warm afterglow. She only knew that his weight was comfortable, his skin soft and slick with sweat. She only knew that she loved him, loved him more than she knew before, loved him in a way she had never loved anyone. She listened to his murmurs. The sweet words he had never spoken before twined themselves about her heart.

Steed shifted finally, rising above her and rolling over so that he lay with one arm still around her.

“We should finish that champagne,” he said, but it was evidently an effort to rise from the bed and pad the few feet to the bottle and glasses. She admired his build when he moved, mentally comparing him, in her limited experience, to other men she had seen naked. When he got back into bed, she had just concluded that he outstripped them all, so to speak.

“This seems to be a feature of our relationship.” She took her glass from his hand.

“Champagne and good sex?”

“I was referring to the champagne, Steed, but your point is well-taken.”

He ran a finger down the necklace she still wore. "I take it you like it."

"I love it." She sighed. "Paris is a special city, isn't it?"

"I've always thought so."

"Many memories here?"

"Enough." He kissed her. "But this is by far my favorite."

They never did finish the bottle. Another glass and they were back in each other’s arms, kissing, caressing, and finally making love again. Whatever inhibitions had remained were gone, whatever uncertainty that still niggled at their minds had vanished with their first honest confession to one another. When dawn touched the Parisian rooftops, Emma lay with her arms about Steed’s chest, her face pressed into his back. Drifting again to sleep, she remembered what he had said, seemingly a thousand years ago. Nothing in the world could disturb them. Nothing else mattered.


End file.
